


Haunted

by severalkittens



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-12-06 19:31:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18224474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/severalkittens/pseuds/severalkittens
Summary: This time last year, they were about to play Juventus in Turin.This time last year, he was lounging by himself in an oversized king bed with a spectacular mountain view.Now he’s stuck in the Europa League with nothing but two twin beds and his big stupid crush on De Gea.





	Haunted

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the 19/20 season, and it's a little bit crack-y.

 

The Mourinho-era had not ended well, but Victor never thought they’d still be reaping the consequences a year on. He’s sitting on a bus winding through endless farmland _god knows where_ in continental Europe. They’re on their way to play MOL Vidi in the Europa League. He remembers laughing with Paul when Arsenal played Qarabag last fall, a lifetime ago. 

He’s certainly not laughing now. And Paul’s uncharacteristically quiet, gold Beats gleaming on his ears, shutting out the world. There’s no boisterous card game or dance-off to some new tune. He’s just sitting solemnly in the back of the bus playing solitaire with a real deck of black cards emblazoned with his own logo, PP. Victor pulls his jacket up around his neck and frowns.

Last time they played Europa League, they were barely clinging to a position in the top six. Any European football at all felt like a blessing. But now, after last season’s spectacular run of form under Ole, Europa league feels like a curse. For a brief minute, he’d thought- everyone had thought- they had escaped the wreckage Mourinho left behind. They recovered that insurmountable point deficit, had a near brush with glory in the Champions League, achieved top four. But Chelsea had knocked them back to earth. Winning the Europa League, and depriving them of Champions League football for a year. They deserved more.

Next to him, Dave is snoozing against the window. Victor thinks about playing a prank on him, but he looks so peaceful. His mouth is slightly open, breath disturbing a curl of light brown hair that’s escaped from underneath his hood. Victor has a sudden impulse to reach over and tuck the stray lock back in its place, maybe let his knuckles brush Dave’s sharp cheek bone. _Stop it,_ he tells himself. He looks away from the rise and fall of De Gea’s shoulders, and tries to daydream about the Champions League instead. 

 

Victor’s managed to doze off by the time the bus arrives at its destination. It’s dark, and he’s a little out of it, so he has no idea where he is. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes and waits for the rest of his teammates to get off the bus.

He steps into a gravel parking lot, eyeing the accommodations. Instead of the usual welcoming hotel, they seem to be at some sort of large house. Gas lamps on either side of the door flicker in the strong wind that’s whistling through the brush surrounding the lodge. Victor can barely make out three stories of brown siding, and rows of square windows lined with red trim. Some are lit with candles, some aren’t. Something hits him in the back of the neck and he gives a little start. He reaches around and pulls off a dry, crunchy leaf.

“It looks haunted, man,” says Paul, nudging his arm as he walks past. Victor laughs to himself, and thinks that he wouldn’t mind a haunting, as long as the beds are warm and they serve a good breakfast. He crunches the leaf, and lets the pieces blow away into the darkness.

Victor enters into the lobby, which is really more of a living room. He wanders around at the back of the group, examining his surroundings. He picks up a candelabra from the mantle. It’s oily, so he shoves it back and surreptitiously wipes his hand on his track pants. He’s squinting at an old book he pulled down from a dusty shelf, when he hears some sort of commotion rippling through his teammates.

“We’re Manchester United and we can’t even afford our own rooms?” he hears Jesse mutter to Marcus.

“Nah, gaffer said the hotel’s not big enough”

“Bullshit, mate.”

Shaking heads, the two disappear towards the elevators. Victor wonders who he’s with. He hopes it’s not Phil. Phil snores. 

Victor approaches the sheet, reads out “De Gea/Lindelof,” and his heart sinks. Of course it would be Dave, the stoic goalkeeper he likes just a little too much. Somewhere between the worldie saves, the soft, floppy brown hair, and the mysterious, but mischievous demeanor, Victor’s developed a crush. _Grow up, Lindelof,_ he thinks. He sets his face, grabs his suitcase, and marches toward the elevator.

 

Victor gives two quiet little knocks on the door. 

“One minute!” calls Dave. There’s a bit of shuffling, and then the door opens. 

Victor’s jaw hits the ground. On the other side of the threshold, Dave is standing shirtless with a towel around his waist. Behind him are two of the smallest twin beds Victor’s ever seen in his life, barely an arm’s length apart in the tiny room. Each bed sports a different quilt, hand-made unless he’s mistaken, and a lumpy white pillow.

“Cozy, isn’t it?” says Dave, eyes twinkling. Victor blushes. “I’m going to take a shower. Or at least try to. You can choose a bed.”

“Thanks, man,” says Victor, finally swallowing his shock. 

He sits down on the bed closest to the wall, farthest from the shower. This time last year, they were about to play Juventus in Turin. This time last year, he was lounging _by himself_ in an oversized king bed with a spectacular mountain view. Now he’s stuck in the Europa League with nothing but two twin beds and his big stupid crush on De Gea.

 

Victor’s teeth are chattering so hard it wakes him up. The sheet and the quilt are balled up at his feet, and he’s clutching the pillow as if his life depends on it. He pulls them back up, and presses his feet to his calves to get warm. _Why am I so cold?_ he thinks. _Get it together, man, you’re supposed to be used to this._

He thinks about getting out of bed and putting on all of his clothes. He fantasizes about getting in the shower, filling up the tiny cubicle with hot steam, letting the feeling return to his feet. But both of those would involve leaving the sheets, and he certainly doesn’t want to do that. It’s too cold. He lies there, shivering in discomfort, unable to get warm. 

It’s a little while before Victor becomes aware of two things: First of all, he doesn’t hear the heater going, and he’s pretty sure he heard it clunking along before. Second, he doesn’t hear Dave’s deep, steady breaths.

“Dave?” he says tentatively.

“Yeah?” comes a soft reply.

“You cold?”

“Yeah man, I’m fucking freezing,” says Dave with a shaky chuckle. Victor sighs in relief. He’s not crazy, and he’s not alone.

“I think the heat’s out,” says Victor.

“No shit.”

They fall into silence for a minute. He wonders if Dave can hear his teeth chattering, too. Victor’s had his eyes wide open for the last five minutes, but it’s so inky black they won’t adjust to the darkness. He wishes he could see De Gea, even just an outline in dim moonlight. Anything to make him feel like he wasn’t freezing alone at the end of the world. 

“Victor?” It’s Dave who breaks the silence. His voice is barely a whisper.

“Yeah?”

“Get over here,” says Dave’s voice in the darkness. 

There’s a small light; Dave’s turned his phone on and pointed it across the room. Victor pauses for a minute, biting his lip. He can see his breath forming in the air in front of him. He’s really too cold to argue, so he jerkily slides out from underneath his own quilt and launches himself into the other bed, colliding first with the frame and then De Gea’s hard body. Dave lets out a muffled _oof_.

“Sorry, sorry,” he whispers. Dave has his arms outstretched. Victor slides between them and nestles into his goalkeeper’s chest. It’s warm and soft, and he likes the way the little hairs prickle his cheek. He feels his own heart beat harder, and hopes it’s not noticeable.

“God, your teeth are chattering,” says Dave, concerned. He feels long fingers snake around the back of his neck, work their way into his hair. He lets Dave pull his face into the crook of his neck. Part of him is embarrassed, disbelieving, ecstatic. But he’s too tired, and really too cold to process any of this, so he extracts his own arms from between them and wraps them around Dave’s long torso. 

He presses his freezing toes against Dave’s calf, and the goalkeeper jumps a little. “Jesus fucking Christ, Victor, you’ve got ice cubes for toes,” he hisses.

“Sorry,” he says, guiltily drawing his toes away from Dave’s warm skin.

“Is this why they call you the ice man?” Dave chuckles. He bends his knee so Victor’s toes are sandwiched between his calves again. 

“Yeah, I’ve put my toes on every leg in Manchester,” Victor quips. They laugh, shaking the tiny bed, and Victor relaxes a little.

Later, he’d ask himself how he got here. But for now, all he feels is relief as warmth creeps back into his fingers, his cheeks, and finally his toes. The last thing he thinks about before he falls asleep is how well his face fits in the crook of Dave’s neck, how well they fit together on the pitch, and how wonderful the universe is for letting him have both experiences.

 

 

Victor wakes up in hell the next morning. His head is pounding like he’s hungover, limbs heavy against the bed, tongue dry and fuzzy. He moves it around in his mouth, trying to find moisture, blinking his eyes as they adjust to the morning light. He remembers waking in the middle of the night, crawling into Dave’s bed. Dave’s body is still pressed up behind him, torso to torso, hip to hip. He thinks he feels one of Dave’s legs snaking between his own. He snuggles back, shuts his eyes, and prays for a little more time before Dave wakes up, a little more time before he has to face reality. 

He’s just about asleep again when he feels it- a little nudge against his right lower back. His breath hitches, and he’s instantly awake. Dave’s fingers wrap around his hips and pull him closer. He lies there, barely daring to breath, entire being focused on Dave’s erection growing against him. Victor feels a growing tightness between his own legs, and prays for Dave to murmur, plant a kiss on his neck, anything. But Dave is still asleep, Victor can tell by the rhythm of his chest, the way he’s breathing out in long puffs. 

He bites his cheek, gracefully slides out of bed and tip toes into the bathroom, dick bobbing between his legs. _It was the right thing to do,_ he thinks, regretfully. Dave is asleep, didn’t know what he was doing, didn’t know what reactions he was stirring in Victor. He stands in front of the sink and sighs, staring down at his erect penis. He’ll have to deal with this later, sometime when Dave isn’t sleeping just feet away.

Victor grabs his toothbrush and raises his head to look in the mirror for the first time that morning. It’s an old mirror, tarnished and scratched, definitely in need of a polish. But none of that can hide the face staring back at Victor. He shakes his head, lifts his hand and scrubs at it, blinks his eyes repeatedly, runs his hands through his hair. The reflection doesn’t change, and his hands don’t catch at the cropped wiry waves they usually find. Shiny, straight locks slip between his fingers, and Victor opens his mouth and screams. 

It’s not Victor’s face. It’s Dave’s.

 

 

He dashes out of the bathroom, stares slack-jawed at the bed he recently vacated. There, sitting up, rubbing his eyes looking confused, is, well, him. Or what he assumes is David De Gea in Victor Lindelof’s body. 

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, what the fuck,” says Victor. It comes out in David’s low, rumbly voice.

David’s sitting on the bed, stark naked, staring at Victor with wide blue eyes. His lips are slightly parted, and he looks like he’s just seen a ghost. It’s weird seeing such a shocked look on his own face. He cocks his head and stares back.

Victor jumps about a foot when he hears a knock on the door. _What do I do?_ He mouths at Dave-or is it Victor?- eyes wild, hands pulling at his hair.

Dave lifts a finger to his lips. _Answer the door._ He mouths back.

Victor sighs and walks shakily over to the door, suddenly aware of how much longer his legs are, how much skinnier. He pops the door open a crack, and peeks out.

“Dave!” It’s Herrera. “Are you ok? I heard you scream.” Victor quells the panic that rises in his chest at hearing Ander call him Dave.

“Yeah uh,” he coughs. He’s still not used to Dave’s voice emerging from between his lips. “There was ahhh, spider.”

Ander snorts, and smacks the door frame. Victor jumps. “Jeez man, get a grip. A spider? You screamed bloody murder.”

“I don’t like spiders,” he says, defensively. 

“It was big,” Dave adds, and Victor thinks he might pass out from the shock of hearing his own voice out loud. He clutches the door frame and swallows.

“Ok man, as long as you’re good. I thought Lindelof might have murdered you,” says Hererra, winking.

He hears Dave snort from inside.

Ander’s still staring at him suspiciously, eyeing his white-knuckled hand gripping the door frame. He arranges his face into what he thinks is normal and stares back. 

“Alright, well, take care big man,” says Ander. And then he leaves.

Victor shuts the door. He sighs shakily, runs his hands through Daves hair again. He can’t quite believe he’s not in some fucked up fever dream.

Dave is still sitting on the bed, staring at Victor’s hands.

“What are we going to do?” says Victor.

Dave looks up. “Our best.”

 

It’s weird, crouching in front of Dave’s suitcase, going through Dave’s clothes. It’s something he might have done furtively, when Dave was in the shower. He pulls out the black, long-sleeved training shirt, and holds it in front of him. He stares at the tiny _De Gea_ on the chest, the iconic 1 on the sleeve, and pictures Dave flying through the air. Panic rises quickly in his chest.

“Oh my god what about training? I’m not you, I can’t do it!”

“Oh uh,” says Dave behind him. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Helpful, you are,” says Victor, shuffling through Dave’s socks. “Not that it’s a problem for you. You’ll probably be fine, that body was made for running, and you already know how to kick a ball. Although I guess if you run any plays-”

“Heads up!” yells Dave, suddenly.

He turns. There’s a blur coming towards his head, and without really thinking about it he reaches a hand out, snatches at the air. He just stands there, the ancient television remote clutched in his hand. 

“Dave, what the fuck? Did you just throw this at me?”

“Yeah, I did. And see? You still have the reflexes, we must have kept each other’s football skills. We’ll be fine!” and it’s still so weird to see his own blue eyes and white teeth flashing at him in a grin.

“Well sure. That’ll be fine. But what about everything else?” says Victor. “Like what do you do? What’s your schedule? Where do you go?” 

Dave stares back at him, blue eyes worried. He sighs. “I’ll just have to explain everything to you. And you’ll do the same for me.” He sits down on his bed, and pats the space next to him, beckoning to Victor. “Oh, and while we’re at it, we better get used to calling each other by the right names. Dave.”

For the next hour, Dave- or is he Victor?- explains all the goalkeeping drills to him, and Victor explains all the field drills back. When they finally exit the room for breakfast, Victor’s feeling like this might not be a total disaster. 

 

It’s a total disaster. Goalkeeper training is horrible. Sure, the remote Dave chucked at his head confirmed he still had De Gea’s god-like reflexes. But under pressure, he can’t seem to muster them. Alvarez has him doing a simple drill, just toss and catch. But the ball won’t stick in his hands. He spits on his gloves like he’s seen Dave do before, but it doesn’t help. There’s disappointment and concern in Alvarez’ eyes when he picks the ball up from the ground for what seems like the millionth time. 

Now Ole, Alvarez and Rashford are launching free kicks at him, and he watches ball after ball sails past him. If he hears one more ball hit the back of the net, he’ll lose his mind. To make things worse, Dave seems just fine in Victor’s body. He watches Victor Lindelof charge down the field, slide tackle Jesse, and come away with the ball. _Figures_ , he thinks, rolling his eyes.

When they finally head in for lunch, he feels bruised and battered emotionally and physically from throwing himself at the floor all morning. Normally he wouldn’t shower in between double sessions, but there’s dirt caked into his legs, and grass in his hair. He sits on the bench in the locker room waiting, towel wrapped around his hips. 

He turns his head to the slap-slap-slap of sandaled feet on the floor. It’s Dave. 

“You just have to let go,” he says.

“I’ve been trying, I just can’t,” snaps Victor, rubbing his palms against his eyes. “You caught meby surprise with that remote. I can’t do it when I’m thinking about it!”

“You can,” says Dave, gently. “I have your skills, you have mine.” Victor rests the back of his head against the wall defeatedly. “Come on, I saw you make a couple world class saves back there, you just need a little time.”

Dave holds out his hand for a fist bump. Victor sighs, and raises his fist to Dave’s. “I hope you’re right.” 

He’s embarrassed he’s handling this with so little grace, and it’s almost worse that Dave is being so nice and supportive. Dave starts to walk away, but Victor stops him. “Hey, wait!” Dave stops. “Um,” he licks his lips. “Sorry you woke up to a scream this morning. That can’t have been fun.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, I was already awake,” says Dave easily, and unless Victor’s very mistaken, there’s the mischievous glint he’s so used to finding in Dave’s eye.

The memory Dave pressed up behind him in the bed floats through his mind, and he freezes. “You were?” he says, trying to school his features into a normal expression.

“More or less,” Dave says. “Enjoy your shower!” And with that, Dave winks Victor’s blue eye at him, turns, and walks away. Victor closes his eyes and leans back against the wall again, wondering what the hell he’s supposed to do with that information.

 

 

Victor takes a long time in the shower. 

He’s trying so hard to ignore it, but the fact of the matter is, _he has Dave’s body._ Dave, goalkeeper extraordinaire, whose body had been haunting Victor’s dreams for months. He knows it’s weird, so he tries his hardest to ignore the way the water runs down his washboard abs and pale, muscular thighs. He tries to ignore the feel of his long fingers rubbing his scalp and running through his hair, and how soft that hair feels to their touch. 

He tries to ignore it, but it’s not long before his dick is rock hard and twitching under the warm spray of water. He flips the handle all the way to cold and squeezes his eyes shut, hoping it’ll go away. He stands under the cold stream for what seems like hours, but he’s still impossibly turned on, still itching to wrap Dave’s long fingers around his erection.

He slams the wall in frustration, groaning. “Sorry, Dave,” he whispers, and flips the water back to warm. Victor eases his hand around his throbbing length, and squeezes. Dave has a really nice dick. It’s long, like everything else about him, and it’s thicker than he expected. He rubs up and down the shaft, and heat quickly pools in his stomach. He braces himself against the wall, and works his hand faster. 

He’s just shy of the edge yet when he hears footsteps. “Victor?” comes Dave’s tentative voice. His hand stills, and the prospect of Dave catching him makes him go soft instantly. “Hey, are you trying to drown yourself in there?”

“No,” he replies shakily, taking deep breaths. He cringes at the ache in his balls, knowing it’ll do nothing to help his poor form. He pulls his towel down from the rack and starts to dry himself.

“That’s good. I never saw you come out of the shower, just wanted to make sure you were ok,” says Dave. 

Victor pulls back the curtain. “I’m fine,” he says, flushed, not looking Dave in the eye.

“Are you?”

With a herculean effort, Victor raises his eye’s to Dave’s, and holds them. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“Great,” and if Dave suspects anything, he doesn’t let on. “You need to eat. I don’t want to get my body back starved.” Victor breaths a sigh of relief, and they head to lunch.

 

Victor’s back on the sidelines tying his shoe, cheeks still slightly flushed, hoping nobody looks at him. He feels a hand on his shoulder. “Dave, is everything alright?” It’s Ole.

“Yeah gaffer, everything’s fine.” But his voice cracks on the word ‘fine.’

“You’re not at your best.” It’s just a statement of fact, but Victor can’t help but feel tears prick behind his eyes.

“I know, gaffer,” he forces out.

“Tell me,” says Ole gently.

Victor shakes his head, biting his lip.

“You need to tell me, lad,” he repeats.

Victor swallows hard. “It’s nothing, nothing.”

Ole’s face falls. “If that’s the case, then you know I can’t play you tomorrow.”

He manages to nod once, and Ole turns away and heads back to center of the scrimmage.

When Dave subs out 5 minutes later, he looks exhilarated. He’s played really well, and Victor can tell he’s been having a the time of his life. Victor tries to turn away before he comes over, but it doesn’t work.

“I saw gaffer talk to you,” says Dave. 

Victor says nothing. 

“He benched you, didn’t he?”

“That bad, huh?” Victor laughs shakily. Dave ignores him

“It’s ok, I don’t usually play in non-league competitions.”

“That doesn’t make it better! You’re doing just fine! I have your body, I should be able to use it.” Victor feels his face flush as soon as he saids the words. He mentally kicks himself.

Dave looks like he’s about to say something, but he never gets the chance because suddenly Ole’s calling them both back. “Dave, Victor, get your asses over here!” Dave trots away on Victor’s legs instantly. But Victor hangs back, dreading whatever fresh torture goalkeeper training has to offer him next. 

He’s pulling on Dave’s gloves with what must be a miserable look on his face when Ole grabs his wrist.

“Lad, I can tell something’s not right with you. Why don’t you take the day?” he says kindly.

Normally Victor would stay put on the pitch until he was dragged off kicking and screaming. But he couldn’t bear another round of diving at the ground, watching the ball fly past his outstretched fingertips. He couldn’t bear the look of disappointment and concern in everyone’s eyes, the barely concealed whispers of, “boy, Dave’s having a shocker, isn’t he?” 

So, fighting to keep his voice under control and his tears at bay, he nods his head. “Ok gaffer, ok.”

 

Victor’s under the covers when Dave gets back. When he hears the door click, he instantly turns over and pretends to be asleep. He can tell Dave is standing silently behind him, but it’s a while before he speaks.

“I uh, have an idea,” says Dave. There’s a slight tremor in his voice. 

“What?” says Victor angrily. 

Dave doesn’t answer immediately. “I think I know how to make you let go.” Victor can’t mistake the huskiness of his own voice.

“How’s that?” Victor snaps, but some of the anger has faded.

Dave take quiet footsteps towards him. Victor feels the bed dip.

“It’s something that helps me let go. You know, when I’m me.” And Dave lies down behind him, slides his arm around Victor under the covers, and settles his hand in between Victor’s legs. He squeezes, and Victor gasps.

Dave’s curled up behind Victor, just like he was a lifetime ago this morning. His lips brush the back of Victor’s neck, right by his ear. “I imagine you, doing this to me,” he whispers. 

Victor shivers, and feels himself twitch to life under Dave’s hand. And then that hand is sliding into Victor’s boxers, wrapping around his already hard dick. Victor lets a little quiet sigh escape his lips as Dave starts to gently jerk him.

“Victor,” he whispers, “is this ok?” He pushes forward into Dave’s hand in response, already embarrassingly close from his fun in the shower earlier.

He feels soft lips on his earlobe, and the hand working his cock slows. “Victor, I need you to say something, please.”

Victor rolls over, fixes his gaze on his own blue eyes. “I want you,” he says. There’s still a bit of uncertainty lingering in the blue eyes. “I mean, I want Dave.”

At that, Dave leans forward and touches his lips to Victor’s. Victor’s eyes flutter shut. He wonders if it’s weird to be kissing himself. He wonders if it’s supposed to feel this nice.

And then Dave starts to move his hand again, and all the thoughts racing through Victor’s head fall away. He trails his fingers down Dave’s washboard abs, plays with the ties his waistband. They pause just long enough Victor to pull off Dave’s track pants, for Dave to slide Victor out of the confines of his boxers. 

Dave’s already hard, and he whines as Victor takes him in one hand and wraps the other around his ass. He can’t think too much about how weird it is to be holding his own, familiar penis from this angle, because Dave’s thumb is _doing things to him_ and if he’s not careful he thinks he might come. 

He takes deep breaths, tries to focus on moving his hand the way he knows he usually likes it. But Dave is making these little noises Victor would never make, and his hand is pushing Victor closer to heaven with each stroke. It’s Dave’s orgasm that pushes Victor over the edge. Dave cries out, throbbing into Victor’s hand, coming all over the sheets between them. And then Victor is coming too, so hard he feels like he might die.

Victor loses track of time for a minute. He briefly wonders if maybe he did die, after all. But then he feels Dave’s fingers snake into his hair. He opens his eyes, and jumps back in surprise at the blissed out face in front of him.

“Dave!”

“Mmmmm,” says Dave sleepily.

“You’re Dave! You’re back!” Dave’s eyes fly open, too. 

“Oh, thank god,” he says. And then they’re kissing, laughing in relief.

“That was so fucking weird,” Victor murmurs, nosing Dave’s cheek. Dave hums in agreement, running his finger up and down the back of Victor’s neck.

A minute ago, he was spent, but the patterns Dave is tracing on the back of his neck are making him feel things. He shifts away.

“Look, Dave,” he says. For a minute, Dave looks nervous, so Victor grabs his hand. “No, don’t worry. I’m really into this.” He gestures to his already semi-erect penis. “I just really don’t want to be you again.”

“That was horrible,” says Dave, laughing in relief. 

“So I think you’ll agree we can’t risk another orgasm,” Victor says, regretfully.

“We better not,” agrees Dave. “At least for the sake of our clean sheets.”

“Hey!” yells Victor, cringing at the pun. He shoves Dave so hard he almost falls out of the bed. But they’re both smiling, happy to be themselves again, happy to be together.

 

 

They beat MOL Vidi 5-1. Dave doesn’t play, but Victor scores. They’re the last two on the bus,thanks to a panting, sweaty kiss Dave sneaks from him in a deserted corridor. They end up sitting across the aisle from each other, Victor next to Paul, and Dave next to Ander. Victor spends the ride playing Uno with Paul, but he loses every game because he can’t stop looking at Dave, can’t stop thinking what he’s going to do to him when he gets him alone in his bed.

They’re almost at the airport when Paul turns to Victor with a serious look on his face.

“Vic, last night, I saw some weird shit,” he says, quietly.

“What happened?”

“Look, I don’t want to talk about it,” says Paul, shaking his head. 

“Fair enough,” says Victor, thinking about his own bizarre stay. 

“Victor, I’m telling you, man, that place was haunted,” he says with wide eyes.

_Haunted,_ he muses, frowning.

Out of the corner of his eye, Victor notices Dave is listening in on their conversation. He watches Dave connect the dots, mouth hanging open. Dave notices Victor looking and pulls himself together. 

_Soon,_ Dave mouths, and gives him a wink.

Victor blushes, and silently, he thanks whatever spirit was lingering in that tiny hotel room. 

He hopes it’s found peace.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. I honestly don't know what possessed me to do it.


End file.
